De majore domo modicè sitiente lagena Heus bone, tu palles. Nihil est. Videas tamen istud, Cor tibi rite salit? positum est algente catino Once more desirous for the world to live, Nay, pr'ythee, peace-I do not ask thine aid; His breath, sulphureous, taints the vernal gale, At length unlook'd for death the wretch appals, On the state bed, the stiffen'd corse is laid, "Thy well told tale does not to me apply, "Lay thine hand here; my heart no throbbing knows, Methinks thou mayst a few exceptions make. Durum olus, et populi cribro decussa farina. Say, dost thou sit contented at the board, -hah-there's an ulcer there, Too tender to be touch'd by such coarse fare. |